


I Don't Want Your Apology

by lasergirl



Category: Fake News RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-16
Updated: 2010-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-10 15:45:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasergirl/pseuds/lasergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Follows "Drunken, Naked, Bruised (...and lookin' at dudes)."</p>
    </blockquote>





	I Don't Want Your Apology

**Author's Note:**

> Follows "Drunken, Naked, Bruised (...and lookin' at dudes)."

  
See, Jon's in and out of the ER so quickly that he suffers through the rest of the hangover at home; he has something with codeine in it that takes the edge off and he has about 3 hours' drugged sleep when he sleepwalks into the office later the next day. It's like walking into Dachau, or one of those black-and-white war movies where everyone was John Wayne - tough, hardened faces everywhere.

Rob hands him a coffee with a sympathetic grimace. And it's tough luck, the polls are in everywhere and truly, that brief margin of hope that anyone had for the salvation of the country is gone.

"You look like shit," Rob says, handing him a stack of printouts - yes, they get their news from the Internet just like any other blogging sage. "I guess you know he took Ohio."

Jon guesses Rob doesn't know about his unfortunate, uhm, 'accident' at 2am that necessitated a frantic trip to the ER, ten stitches and a promise of psychological counseling. He vows not to tell him, takes the handful (and winces as the weight of the bastard thing pulls at the sutures in his wrist).

"Thanks, I'll look at these right away."

He's sequestered in his office - it's like a bomb shelter plastered with press clipping and - where the hell did that come from? - an upside-down American flag. It looks like a vision out of Hunter S. Thompson's work. There's no way he can blame this on the codeine.

The fifth page starts bringing stinging tears to his eyes, and Jon digs in his desk drawer for the plastipack of Kleenex he's sure he saw there weeks ago, when a tentative rap of knuckles at his door gives him pause.

"Uh," Stephen's wearing a black funeral suit, that same pinched, white expression on his face that Jon remembers seeing the night before. Haunted by blood. "So I take it you got home okay?"

He may as well put on a face for the bravado; Jon smiles. "Yeah, it was all a big misunderstanding. They straightened it out at the ER for me. It's one hell of a way to become a blood donor."

He knows it doesn't go over well but hey, he had to try. Stephen's face sours more and he steps inside, closes the door with a sort of finality.

"And so I guess you called me last night for no reason?"

"Reason?" Jon rubs at the bandage against the inside of his wrist which is itching crazily. "I wasn't just redecorating last night, you know."

Stephen seems to falter, hesitate even though he doesn't move. Wavers, even. Then finally, he steps right up to the corner of the desk and plants a palm down over the stack of bad news Jon's trying to avoid.

"Next time you - vote - I'll - " and words seem to fail.

And Stephen grabs frantically for Jon's shirtfront because he doesn't know what else to do, and Jon ends up hipbones against the desk, paper spilling over the edge in a white waterfall.

"Don't you ever -" says Stephen, " - EVER do that again."

Inches away from Stephen's face, Jon says "I only have one wrist left, Stephen, I sort of like it the way it is," before the last traces of the codeine kick in and there's a weird hot flash in his gut. He presses in to steal a brush of Stephen's lips, before either of them can even think. Sudden, searing, terrible silence.

"Did you just -" Stephen's got a look on his face that's incredible; halfway between sardonic and flabbergasted. "Jon?"

Jon's eyebrow is a good barometer of his sarcasm; it doesn't even twitch when he leans back in to take a real kiss this time. And this time, Stephen helps, their mouths meeting halfway in a strange sort of telegraphed understanding. After that it's difficult to separate, the papers on the floor are scuffed aside and the two of them take a decent roll over the desk and then Jon's against the wall, with Stephen's hungry mouth at his ear, and Jon's hands along Stephen's hips.

In ten minutes Jon's got a makeup call or something - fuck - the whole thing doesn't matter, the bleeding scab on the inside of his wrist, the sharp pain in his sacrum because there's a shelf between him and the wall - none of it matters because it's here and now, and Stephen's close into him, hot breath and teeth against the skin of his neck. The apologetic sounds are Jon's, a bitten-back whimper that somehow escapes him when Stephen gets a handhold on his belt, then it's clenched fists and a warm hand against his cock. He doesn't have to do this, Stephen knows but if anyone deserves the prize today it's Jon - Jon fucking Stewart, the man who would slit his wrists over the fate of the country, because he cares too much to let the whole thing go.

The back of Jon's head hits the wall with a force that leaves a lump - a dent in the gypsum - as Stephen's wet mouth encircles him. His hands twist into the carefully-coiffed dark hair, the gel crunches and fractures between his fingers. His eyes close of their own accord, a watercolour map of colour across the inside of his eyelids. A tiny fractured corner of his brain tries to think - fails - on the upcoming monologue. There should be more gay jokes or something.

Jon's hips twitch, he comes in a rush, and Stephen delicately ducks his head away with impeccable timing. Jon sags against him in a grateful, boneless weight, his arms flopping about Stephen's shoulders.

"You," Stephen's muffled by Jon's shirt in his mouth, "Are still an idiot. Don't think this is forgiveness or anything."

"Would have done that if I hadn't…" never self-conscious before, now Jon's hand goes to the damning white gauze mummying his wrist. If he had shame, he's sure he'd blush. He doesn't.

"If you're not careful I'll make you do a Public Service Announcement," and he's deathly serious, as upright as he was at 2:37am, November 3rd, 2004. Fuck. "Never. Again. Bush doesn't deserve another martyr."

And that night, when Jon does the opening monologue and his stitches sting, and the producers call in the big guns, and everyone just thinks he's "depressed," he doesn't let anyone onto it because, hell, PSA's are the most embarrassing thing a man can do - and that's saying a lot for Jon Stewart.

END.


End file.
